Enough of nurturing and sensitivity! There comes a point in every dad's life when he asks himself: Am I merely raising a family here? Or am I spawning a dynasty that will multiply in strength and number till it encircles the globe in its iron fist of power? When potty training gets ugly, when the neighbours' off spring achieve key developmental milestones ahead of our own and when the evil of the local educational authority emasculates us, we wonder: what would Genghis Khan do?

It is under-reported that the pater familias of the largest contiguous empire in history didn't become a tyrant until his first son, Jochi, was refused a place at the local state primary school. Living peaceably with the wife and kids in a yurt on the Mongolian steppe, the young Temüjin was troubled only by an inability to name the minor characters in A Bug's Life . The usual dad stuff . Until one bright spring morning, the letter from the council arrived:

"We are sorry to inform you that we are unable to offer your heir a place in any of your preferred warrior training facilities at this time."

This, then, was Temüjin's Ridley Scott moment - the one where he emerged slowly from his tent, his manly visage creased by sorrow and his powerful hand caressing golden heads of barley, to utter the portentous Mongolian words: "I will show them catchment area. I will show them sibling rule."

Our local councillors haven't delivered enough school places this year. They have let down hundreds of kids. This month is appeal season, and thus far my fellow dads are playing it by the book. No one has razed the council offices or burned the councillors' crops . Perhaps my friend S would have been forgiven for doing so when, in the same week he and his partner separated, he received a letter refusing his child a school place and offering the helpful advice: "Please do not worry. The council is monitoring your situation." Don't fret, in other words.

What would Genghis do? Over a pint, we surveyed S's options. Without a school place, the obvious course of action is to abandon one's child in the forest to be adopted by wolves. Lacking a nearby pack, S suggested we admit other options. We considered the independent sector. For a fee, these folks will whisk your child away and return it to you with lacrosse skills. For a larger fee, they will keep it overnight and only let it write to you at weekends. While this is obviously appealing, it means your child won't be on hand to fight at your side in dynastic succession battles. No, this is not the Genghis way either. So, should S and his child move to France, where excellent schools abound? Unfortunately, the Gauls come with a downside, which is their inexcusable music scene.

Our peaceful options exhausted, S hired the Mongol empire's littleknown revenge weapon of choice: the terrifying, glistening, murderous, um, surveyor's wheel. Like warriors we trundled it across the steppe from his house to the nearest school, revealing that the distance in earth metres was a third less than when expressed in council metres. S's child, in fact, should have qualified for a place from the outset. That's his appeal. He isn't the only parent who's going Mongolian. The clicking of surveyors' wheels can now be heard across the borough. Apparently this is how empires are gauged, these days. This is what we're reduced to. Laugh until it's your own child you suddenly need to fight for. Then get the wheel out. Because, under the mocking gaze of bystanders, this is a measured expression of love.